CHAPTER 14: THINGS THAT CAN BE PROVEN
Updated: Oct 12
Hari hadn’t slept much.
He sat at his desk staring at the smooth wooden surface, eyes unfocused, mind replaying fragments of the previous night—the letter, the rules, the weight of everything he was not allowed to say. His body was present, but his thoughts moved more slowly, heavy and restless.
Around him, the elite classroom filled gradually.
Soft footsteps. Chairs sliding back. Low conversations in languages he half-recognised but never fully understood. English came and went. Mandarin flowed past—sharp, precise Korean cut cleanly through the air.
Tamil was nowhere.
Hari let out a quiet breath. He knew a little of everything and not enough of anything. Half-baked in every language, fully comfortable in none. Talking felt like an effort.
His thoughts drifted briefly to home.
His thoughts drifted toward the kind of memories that only returned when someone felt alone.
During Eid al-Adha, Hari never missed going to Shajahan’s house. He loved his mother’s biryani more than the celebration itself.
And at Surya’s village celebrations, the drums were louder, the camphor smoke thicker—but his mother’s welcome was always the same, warm enough to make Hari feel like he belonged there too.
And during Christmas, Sam’s house would fill with warm lights, loud voices, and uneven slices of homemade cake.
Even when the festivals changed, the feeling didn’t—because everyone still spoke Tamil.
Here, even silence felt disciplined.
So, he stayed silent.
The door opened.
The room settled almost immediately.
The man who entered didn’t look intimidating. If anything, he looked kind. Tall, well-composed, with a calm posture that didn’t demand attention but naturally held it. His expression was gentle, his movements measured.
“Good morning,” he said.
His voice was soft—steady, clear, unhurried. Each word landed cleanly, without pushing the next.
“I am Han A-Rin,” he continued. “I will be guiding you through the fundamentals of aura.”
No ceremony.
No authority flex.
He drew a simple circle on the board.
“Aura is not power first,” he said. “Power comes later. Aura is a state. Mind. Control.”
He turned back to the class.
“Everyone here has an aura,” he continued evenly. “That is why you were selected. Not because you are strong—but because you are unstable.”
Several students straightened unconsciously.
“There are seven recognized aura colours,” Han A-Rin said, writing as he spoke.
“Each color represents a tendency. Not destiny.”
He explained them calmly—red, orange, yellow, green, blue—strengths, limits, risks. No glorification. Control always came before force.
“Aura color does not make you superior,” he said. “Discipline does.”
He paused, then wrote numbers on the board.
~1000
“That,” he said, “is the estimated number of active aura users on this planet.”
Several students looked up immediately.
Then, beneath it, he wrote two more lines.
WHITE — 1
PURPLE — 1
A quiet shift moved through the room.
“These are not mythical,” Han A-Rin said clearly. “They are real.”
He turned to face the class.
“But their rarity is absolute. Among roughly a thousand users worldwide, only one white aura user exists. Only one purple aura user exists.”
He let the silence sit.
“That is why these auras are treated with respect,” he continued. “Not worship. Observation, not pressure.”
He tapped the board lightly.
“Forced training destabilises such users. That is why they are guided carefully—or not at all.”
Then he erased the board clean.
“There are also records of two other aura types,” he said calmly.
He did not write their names.
“They appear only in fragmented texts and ancient records,” he continued. “No confirmed individual has ever been recorded using them. Not now. Not in living history.”
He faced the class again.
“That is why they are classified as mythical.”
A chair shifted.
A girl stood up.
Her posture was straight, controlled. Her eyes were sharp, steady calm without arrogance.
“If I may,” she said.
Han A-Rin nodded once.
“The same texts that mention these mythical auras also describe their effect,” she said evenly. “They claim such users become immortal. They do not age. They do not decay.”
The room listened.
“If that were true,” she continued, “then such individuals would still exist. They would have lived across centuries. Across empires. Across wars.”
She met Han A-Rin’s eyes directly.
“We would see them,” she said. “Immortality does not hide.”
Silence followed.
Han A-Rin did not correct her immediately. Instead, a faint smile touched his expression.
“That,” he said at last, “is precisely why mythical aura remains unclassified.”
He did not write anything.
“Every argument against it is logical,” he continued calmly. “And every argument for it lacks proof.”
He turned back to the class.
“So, we do not teach belief,” he said. “We teach discipline.”
He inclined his head slightly toward her.
“For those who don’t know,” he added, “This is Kim Mirae.”
She sat down without another word.
The lesson continued.
The tension in the room softened. Confusion gave way to focus. Even the silence felt different—lighter, more deliberate.
For the first time since arriving, the ache behind Hari’s eyes eased.
Han A-Rin’s voice flowed steadily, grounding everything it touched. No secrets revealed. No myths exaggerated.
Just knowledge—meant to keep them alive.
Hari leaned back slightly, eyes forward.
Whatever this place was shaping them into, one thing was clear now.
This wasn’t about gaining power.
It was about control.
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